H 


PL ASMION, 

A POEM, 


DELIVERED BEFORE THE 


PHILOMATHEAN AND EUCLEIAN SOCIETIES 


OF THE 

/ 

UNIVERSITY 


OF THE 


CITY OP NEW-YORK. 


July 13, 1841. 


“E£ (ftavTcurias nat e\mSos I IXa<r/*a e^syevero .” 

Xeii. Anon. 



NEW-YORK: 

PRESS OF P1ERCY <fc REED, No. 9 SPRUCE STREET. 
1841. 




















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J. CLENDINNING BULKLEY, 

THE 

FOLLOWING POEM 
is 


AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 













PLASM I O N 


i. 

The voiceful morning stars had paled ; and now 
The Night came down on Eden, with her brow 
Radiant as a young bride’s, all light and love. 

Slowly she raised her dark-fringed lids above, 

And her star-eyes wept down the gentle dew. 

The Mother of the Months was throned anew — 

And from her watch-tower, holy and serene, 

Fell her calm smile, to bless so fair a scene. 

The young leaves’ murmur, from the tree-top high, 

Gave back the wooing breezes sigh for sigh : 

The host of night flowers, from each fragrant cup, 
Offered their song of silent sweetness up — 

Those flowers ! bright words with which, at Eden’s birth, 
Our Maker’s hand wrote down his love for earth ! — 
Calmly the four broad rivers slept in smiles, 

And bore upon their breasts the infant isles — 

The Islands ! disinherited of earth, 

The waves adopted them ; and their fond mirth, 

As round the shore they clasped their murmur fell, 
Showed that they loved their foster-children well ! 

Here were the creatures, passionless and calm, 

The wolf and kid, the lion and the lamb ; 

And birds, that all day long rejoicing kept, 

Veiled their soft heads beneath their wings, and slept. 
And here was Man, as yet all purity ; 

And here was Woman, holy and as high 
As when the morning stars, to hail her, burst 
Into triumphant song ; fair as when first 
Risen from her Maker’s hand, too beautiful, 

Too bright for care to pain, for sin to dull ! 

Oh ! who that looked upon a scene so fair, 

Could deem that Sin dare plant a footstep there ! 


4 


ii. 

By woman taught, man sinned ; strange that so well 
The love that lured to fall, could soothe him when he fell ! 
Both from their birth-place, Paradise, were hurled, 

And Eden’s gates were closed upon the world. 

hi. 

But though those doors were barred, no more to ope, 
One trace still lingered of their home — ’twas Hope : 
And Romance is but Hope, with Fancy’s wings ; 

Those plumes that flutter music, when she springs 
Up from some ruined joy, soothing and kind, 

To fling her spell upon the dreamer’s mind. 

Views of the future, bright but yet unsure ; 

Gleams through the dark cloud of a present woe ; 

A glimpse of home, unsullied all and pure, 

When Time’s dark waters shall have ceased to flow ; 
The hope that bids us look beyond this world, 

To join the loved and lost eternally, 

When our light sails upon Life’s wave are furled, 

And the soul’s bark tries Death’s mysterious sea : 
The bright side of Life’s picture ; flowing balm, 

Where the wrung, aching heart may look for calm ; 
The fettered captive’s dream of glad release, 

The rainbow, bright with promises of peace : 

And woman’s love ; and poet’s toiled-for fame ; 

The warrior’s, patriot’s, and statesman’s name ; 

All these, that hope to live through Time’s advance, 

And all of Intellect in part are but Romance ! 

Romance our subject, and our aim to see 
Its use and power, its source and history. 


IV. 

There was a time, when ’neath Heaven’s vengeful eye, 
Poor Hope seemed fain to lay her down and die. 

For sin, like pestilence, spread o’er the land, 

Scorn answered to the Deity’s command ; 

The train of evils ranged the world abroad, 

Rapine and murder, treachery and fraud, 

And demon-worship’s most unholy mirth, 

Till God repented that he made this earth. 

He bade his mighty word go forth on high, 

And said unto his waters, “ Earth must die !” 

Then the wild storm came darkening o’er the sky, 
Black as the midnight’s gloom when most profound ; 
Then the deep thunder pealed aloud on high, 

Till Heaven’s own battlements tottered at the sound. 
Then the fierce lightning gleamed out from the cloud, 
The whirlwind lifted up his voice aloud ; 

And with his sinewy arms tore up the oaks, 

And whirled the trembling leaves abroad, like flocks 
Of frightened doves before the falcon’s sweep. 

Then God unlocked the fountains of the deep, 


5 


And opened wide the flood -gates of his rain ; 

Then the tumultuous waters swelled amain, 

And whelmed the earth beneath their mighty waves. 
The strong whale, nurtured in the sea’s deep caves, 
Swam o’er the mountain tops — ’twas man’s despair — 
But God was in the might of waters there ! 

v. 

And then their came a wild Romantic dream, 

To bid them rear on high their Babel tower : 

To shield them from the living lightning’s gleam, 

To guard them from the swelling water’s power. 


VI. 

And that too was a high Romance, that led 
The Israelites across the desert’s bed ; 

And raised their thoughts above the scorching sand, 
To fix them on the glorious promised land. 

VII. 

And oh ! the Romance of their bondage-land ! 

Mother and nursling of the mystic Nile ! 

From the wild glory-dream of him whose hand, 

Tier upon tier, the giant pyramids piled ; 

Or reared the dreary catacombs array, 

And stored them with their hoards of kingly clay. 

And him who carved those lips, which, when the first 
Sun-kiss lit on them into music burst : 

On through the array of conquerors who swept 
Like storm succeeding storm, across the land ; 

The Persian sword that even the priesthood wept, 

The world-wide conqueror, whose lightning brand 
Laid desolate the earth ; and he so known 
As despot, scholar, fratricide ; yet shone 
The noblest king that sat the Ptolemeian throne ; 

Down to that Queen, whose dark eyes’ flashing beam 
Could witch a Roman from his empire dream ; 

Whose lip drank priceless pearls, or sought in bliss, 
Throbbed wild and warmly to the Caesar’s kiss ; 
Whose hand could train the dark curls down her neck, 
Or change the fate of empires with its beck ; 

Touch the sweet lute-chord with an exquisite art, 

Or lay the serpent to her passionate heart. 

Oh, Egypt ! thou art fallen ! thou who wert 
The Mother of the Sciences ; engirt, 

Like thine own Hermes, with the burning belt 
Of magic and of mystery : thou who dwelt 
’Mid the dark world, a glittering star of lore ; 

Learning hath waned from thy benighted shore, 

Thy spiritual Memnon sounds no more ! 

VIII. 

Rome reaped the spoil of thee ; and where is Rome 1 
The kingly Rome, the seven-hilled seat of pride ! 


6 


Where he, whose proud dream bade his arm strike home 
A dagger to a brother’s heart, and dyed 
The scarce raised walls in gore : and where the race 
Of kings, beneath whose rule Rome grew apace, 

And gathered tribute nations ’neath her wings. 

They who grew tyrannous and haughty ; kings 
Not for the nation, but themselves ; until 
Justice was their command, and law their will. 

Till vengeance’ teeming cup no more could hold ; 

And the stung nation dared at length to start : 

Roused by that suicidal blow, that told 
The awful power of one proud woman’s heart. 

Where he who so a father’s love subdued, 

And shed his son’s blood for his country’s good! 

And he who when the yawning chasm rolled, 

Sprung quickly to its dark embrace, and told 
How far above the miser’s richest hoard, 

The treasure of the patriot soldier’s sword. 

And he, the patriot-tyrant, driven to rest 
By him who, of all Rome, had loved him best. 

He who lost all he had been taught to prize, 

Honor, and fame, and life — for woman’s eyes. 

And he the matricide, who touched the lyre 
While the Eternal City sunk in fire. 

The array of warriors, and bards who sung 
Around the Caesar’s throne ; from him who strung 
The harp that Homer left ; the fierce strong play 
Of Juvenal’s satire, and the lighter lay 
Of the Venusian, and him whose song 
Was given so much to Love, through all the throng 
Of poet, patriot, orator, and sage, 

Who start from ancient Rome’s historic page — 

A constellation of bright intellects ! 

All these have waned from life ; but high respects 
Accorded them by after times, still keep 
Their names and glory from oblivion’s sleep. 

Oh ! Italy ! thy heavens still are blue ! 

Oh ! Italy ! thy meadows still are green ! 

But there the sombre ruin starts to view, 

To show what now thou art, what thou hast been. 

Still thou art beautiful ! for Memory plays, 

Like the green ivy, round thy mouldering walls ; 

And gloriously ‘ the light of other days,’ 

In gentle radiance on thy ruin falls. 


IX. 

Turn we to Greece ! Romance’s favorite clime. 
From that much sung-of, but uncertain time, 
When Orpheus thrilled the magic lyre along, 
And rocks and trees came dancing to his song : 
When Python, with his coil's envenomed flow, 
Fell ’neath the poet-god’s resistless blow ; 


7 


When young Arion on the lute-strings played, 

Till dolphins followed where his music led ; 

And he the demi-god, who toiled so well, 

Till by a woman’s jealous hand he fell. 

Through all that list of poet, god, and sage, 

Who swell the glory of that fable age : 

To those of whom the blind, old Scian told ; 

The quick Pelides, Hector’s helm of gold, 

He who from Troy’s fierce flames his father bore, 
Nestor’s experience and Ulysses’ lore — 

Penelope’s firm truth, and far above 
All others, Helen’s lava tide of love ! 

Musaeus then, with his romantic tale, 

Of him who dared the storm-wave and the gale ; 

But whelmed beneath the mighty water’s swell, 
Sunk in the sight of her he loved so well. 

The laureate of the wine-cup ; and the lyre 
That knew the dark-eyed Lesbian’s soul of fire ; 
Leucadia’s temple, and the frowning steep 
Where Sappho flung her lute and life along the deep. 


1 . 

Lo ! sorrowful and mute, 

With brow and bosom bare, 

The wild wind sighed along her lute, 
And tossed her clustering hair. 

While from above she sees 
The curling water’s strife ; 

Then pours the sigh of ruined peace, 
The swan-song of her life ! 

2 . 

Phaon, one last sad song, 

One long farewell to thee ; 

Then thou shalt close above my wrong, 
Oh, cold and silent sea. 

Oh ! by these tears that start, 

Tears by my anguish stayed, 

The bitterness of woman’s heart, 

That trusts, and is betrayed : 


3 . 

By this quick throbbing brow, 

This racked and aching brain — 

I bind a curse upon thee now, 

Oh ! mayst thou love in vain ! 

My harp, my home, farewell ! 

The soul’s strong agony 
Shall find deep peace beneath thy swell, 
Thou cold and silent sea ! 


8 


The stern tragedian’s strong and fiery play, 

And the light touch of the comedian’s lay ; 

With all that fought and fell, 0 Greece ! for thee. 
At Marathon and old Thermopylae, 

Plateea, Salamis : — that Persian king 

Who would have bound the surge’s thundering. 

The senators — thy civil life’s defence ; 

The orators, whose godlike eloquence 

Rung to the people’s hearts ; the hundred schools 

Of old Philosophy, from the iron rules 

Of the harsh Cynic, to the voluptuous scheme 

Of those who followed Epicurus’ dream. 

All these have faded ; from thy crown each gem, 
0 Greece, has fallen ; thou hast fallen with them. 


x. 

The Romance of the ancient world hath fled. 

The light-limbed fauns and dryads that had played 
’Neath the green forest’s shade, are gone like dreams. 
The dark-eyed Nymphs have left their tainted streams : 
The forms that peopled the un slumbering sea ; 

The bright but sensual Theogony ; 

The inspired Pythoness, who wont to tell 
The mystic utterings of the oracle ; 

The hollow depths of silence- gendering caves, 

The spirit rivers, with their prophet waves ; 

The thousand feasts, with their mysterious mirth, 

The intercourse of Deity with earth ; 

The Stygian streams ; Elysium’s peaceful dells ; 

The rock-chained captive, and the countless yells 
Of Tartarus — why did these their parting take 1 
Arrest Time’s flight and ask — “ Thou who didst break 
The link that bound the gorgeous past to us, 

Who and what were these that they vanished thus 1 ” 
He will reply, “ What thou and thine must be ; 

Time’s tribute paid unto Eternity !” 


XI. 

Now for the hour, the joyous hour, the day of old Romance ! 

The holiday of war and love, of lute and glittering lance. 

When the knight, for ladies’ love, still strove in joust or tilt to shine. 
Or plant the holy cross above thy sands, Oh Palestine ! 

The age when chivalry, refined 
Like gold, from out the feudal sway. 

Burst sun-like on the night of mind, 

And swept its darkest clouds away : 

Made glory generous, and smoothed o’er 
The terrors of the brow of war. 

That first made soul to conquer sense : 

And taught mankind to shield and bless 
Those fair, weak hearts, whose sole defence 
Was beauty and their gentleness. 


9 


That first raised up affection, high, 

The passions of the brute above ; 

And giving Woman dignity, 

Made her so worthy of our love. 

That soon subdued all meanness ; taught 
The heart of the young knight to shun 
Self-love ; and made each noble thought 
Expand, like wild flowers to the sun. 

That taught him faithfully to swear, 

Ere he the golden spurs might wear, 

“To aid the helpless and distressed ; 

To speak the truth, come weal or woe ; 

And ne’er, however driven and pressed, 

To turn him from the foe !” 

What time, from his ascetic cell, 

Rushed the old anchorite, to swell 
The trumpet blast of the crusade ; 

Till Europe, thrilling at the peal, 

Sent to the wild old hermit’s aid 
Her noblest hearts and truest steel. 

Then from the Norman coasts there came 
Those haughty brows and souls of flame, 

Who vowed “ delay nor stay to brook, 

Till Palestina’s sands were known 
Who scared the enervate Greeks, and shook 
Their coward king upon his throne. — 

From him whose lust of bloody fame 

Wrought the crusades their earliest loss ; 

To him who on Jerusalem 
First set the standard of the cross ! — 

France had her Blanche, whose prayer and smile 
Blest her fair son, and bad him start ; 

And she, the proud sea-girdled isle, 

Sent out her Richard Lion- heart ! 

Old Scotland gave that noble king, 

Who, when he felt death’s shadowy wing 
Shake its chill dews upon his brow, 

Too proud to break the plighted vow 
That bound him unto Palestine, 

Cried “ Douglas ! it shall be thy part 
To go, and on my Saviour’s shrine, 

Lay my good broadsword and my heart !” 

XII. 

Oh ! ’twas a high romance that swelled 
Those Christian hearts with lofty power 
To dare and do ; that so upheld 
Their spirits in the trial hour. 

That bade them over Syria’s plains, 

Rich tribute from their pierced hearts pour ; 

Or keep their faith, beneath the chains 
That bound them to the dungeon floor. 

2 


10 


That taught them honor ; bade the gleam 
Of their bright swords be freely given, 

To aid the wronged, and made them deem 
Naught above woman’s love but Heaven ! 

XIII. 

Romance was ever theirs ; its chains 
Were hung around them from their birth ; 

It flowed, like pure metallic veins, 

Through the dark surface of the earth ; 

Slept, crystal-like, in every bed 

O’er which the sparkling waters played ; 

And told its story in the tone 
Of the green forest’s spirit moan. 

Old Allemania’s tribes that mock 
The wanderer, by flood and fell ; 

The shadow-giant of the rock, 

The ring of the wild Huntsman’s yell, 

The spell of fountain-born Undine, 

The swart King of the Coppermine : — 

Gaul’s mountain sprites, and elfin troup ; 

Her wild-witch Sabbath, and the group 
Of rocking pines, that told the sky 
The tales of earth’s depravity. — 

Old England’s goblin of the glades ; 

The fairies of her wild-wood shades ; 

And Scotland’s sprites of the dark correi ; 

The kelpies of her torrent wave ; 

And the Banshee whose boding cry 
Bade the proud chieftain to his grave. 

Then lived those children of fair France, 

Whose names must last while Time endures ; 
That priesthood of the old Romance, 

The gallant-hearted Troubadours ! 

Germany’s minesinger host, 

The Scalds of Scandinavia’s coast, 

The bards of Albyn’s island sea, 

And England’s “ wandering minstrelsie. ,r 

Then were the days of Robin Hood, 

That monarch of the “ goode greene-woode.” 
Then were the days of errant knight, 

Whose tasks were but to love and fight ; 

Whose life from birth till death was spent 
In bower, or field, or tournament. 

Then old Philosophy still tried 
The star-lore, or the magic spell ; 

Or bent on Mammon, lived and died, 

In poring o’er the crucible. 


This was Romance’s splendid hour, 

These were the spells that fed her power. 

XIV. 

Mu ch of Romance there lingers yet, 

But chivalry’s bright star hath set. 

Vainly it struggled ’neath the spell 
That bore it down with mighty hand ; 

And its last dying radiance fell 
On thy blue hills, my Father’s land ! 

Handed from sire to son, the spark 
From Scottish breasts could ne’er depart ; 

But when all earth beside was dark, 

It glowed within the Highland heart ! 

From those of whom old Ossian sings — 

The battle-nursed, the car-borne kings ; 

The bards, remembered even now, 

The eagle-crested chieftain throng, 

And she whose “ radiant moonlike brow, 

Her step the music of a song” — 

Moved o’er the ocean-beaten sand, 

When war’s thick darts around her fell — 

She whom a Painter of our land 

Hath breathed upon the canvass well ! 
Through those who taught the iron tide 
Of England’s chivalry to turn 
At Falkirk, Otterbourne, Langside, 

Flodden and Bannockburn : 

So onward to the “ gallant, good Montrose 
Down to the last and brightest— down to those 
Who bled for that fond love of liberty 
Which tyranny calls treason. Let us see 
How one of these could meet fate’s heavy fall. 

His story tells the history of all. 

1 . 

He stood upon the scaffold frame. 

The erne-plume from his brow was streaming, 
And in his eye, the dauntless flame 

Of his proud Highland’s sires, was gleaming, 
first— where the ranks, for fight arrayed, 

Saw targets crash, and claymores shiver ; 
first — to the headsman's shameful blade, 

When glory’s dream was o’er for ever. 


2 . 

He lent his blood to swell the dye, 

From highland hearts so freely given ; 
When waved the haughty tartans high, 
And pealed the slogan up to heaven ! 


12 


Nor did the field receive his breath ; 

Yet shall his name long ring in story. 

He trod the bitterest path to death, 

But proudly trod, as if to glory. 

3 . 

Nor soon shall Scotland’s hills forget, 

Nor the blue heaven that sleeps above them. 
The gore with which their heath was wet, 

The souls that lived to shield and love them ; 
The arms that bravely bore their parts, 

The nerves that broke, but could not falter ; 
The sacrifice of patriot hearts, 

That broke on Freedom’s holy altar. 


xv. 

And now — hath not Romance all brightly shone 
O’er that fair girl who sits on England’s throne 1 
Did she not flash like lightning, in that star 
Of Corsica 1 ? That meteor of war ! 

That gleamed along the Gallic heaven, and set 
On St. Helena ! Lo ! it lingers yet. 

1 . 

Aye ! bare each warrior head ! 

Peal hymns, and censers wave ! 

As ye raise the dust of the kingly dead, 

From his rocky island grave ! 

On the mirror of the past, 

How quick the mind can view 

Each scene of might, from his foremost fight. 
To the field of Waterloo ! 

In peace — how toiled his heart, 

And ached his sleepless lid ; 

Till thy proud land shone, the loftiest stone, 

Of Fame’s proud pyramid. 

In battle, thoughts of thee 
His eagle eye enlarged ; 

When the field rang out, with a thunder shout, 
As his steel-clad squadrons charged. 

2 . 

Cover each warrior brow ! 

Be hymn and incense fled ! 

Why with this laggard mockery, now, 

Taunt ye the kingly dead ? 

Left ye him not to rot, 

On yonder barren shore ? 

And come ye, now that he is free, 

To break his prison door ? 

His bones thou still should’st claim, 

Rock of the voiceful sea ! 

Thou monument of England’s shame, 

And Gallia’s treachery ! 


13 


But a voice from thy shore did start — 
Pealed o’er the echoing deep, 

And rung, 0 France ! into thy heart, 

To break its careless sleep. 

Now with the black-plumed bier, 

Now with the muffled drum ; 

Now, with the regal-broidered pall, 

His ancient comrades come, 

To break the gloom of the dreamless tomb, 
And bear their leader home. 

Then bare each warrior head.' 

Peal hymns, and censers wave ! 

As ye raise the dust of the kingly dead, 
From his rocky island grave ! 

XVI. 

In our land here, all star like she hath stood, 

Above that free, wild people of the wood. 

She filled their bosoms with the stern delight 
For the wild chase, the stormy joy of fight ; 
Forbade, in sorrow, one complaining breath, 

Taught them to look undauntedly on death ; 
Inspired them to view, with anguished dread, 

Upon their fathers’ graves, a stranger’s tread ; 

And long for death’s dark wings, to hover round, 
And waft them to their happy hunting ground. 

By Carthage, as the Roman sat of yore, 

So sits she ’mid those ruins, stern and hoar — 
Those ruins of a perished people’s home — • 
Palenque — the new world's Herculaneum ; 

And Copan its Petraea— Romance dwelt 
Inspiring, in the hearts of those who built 
Those temples, sepulchre, and palace walls ; 

She taught their hands to decorate their halls 
With graceful sculpture ; such as she hath saved 
From Spain’s iconoclasts. Her banner waved 
O’er him, who lately wandered from this clime, 

To study, ’mid those ruins, the sublime 
And stern decay that marks the onward step of Time. 

She breathed o’er those who fled a tyrant’s mock ; 
That pilgrim-band that sought the Plymouth rock— 
The wandering Indian startled as they sang, 

And stood to listen, while the sweet hymn rang. 
While they, the pilgrims, knelt upon that sod, 

And in the wild- wood bowed them to their God ! 

Aye ! and when tyranny stretched o’er the sea, 

And all the land sunk in despondency ; 

She fired some spirits to arise and say — 

“ Man was not born to bow him thus to clay ! 


\ 


14 


Look how the free winds lash the free wild waves ; 
Look on them, men ! Now I dare ye yet be slaves 1 

1 . 

Awake ! awake ! let heart and hand 
Be chainless as the sea ! 

Strike, for our own green forest land ! 

God made it for the free ! 

See how the insect’s wing, unstayed, 

Darts through the light along : 

Go to the wild-bird’s green-wood glade, 

His is a free-born song. 

2 . 

Ho ! would ye check the eagle’s soar, 

Or stay his sunward start 1 
He’ll break against his prison-bar, 

The proud cords of his heart. 

Go bid the sunbeams cease to dance 
Along the dark blue sea ; 

The scornful lightning of their glance, 

Shall tell you they are free ! 

3 . 

Mark how unchecked each dark cloud stirs ; 

Its course no fetter binds. 

Look to our hills ! the dark green firs — 

Nod to the bondless winds. 

Awake ! awake ! let heart and hand 
Be chainless as the sea ! 

Strike, for our own green forest-land — 

God made it for the free ! 

XVII. 

Romance is everywhere ! All hearts that swell 
With the warm gush of life, must feel her spell. 

The merchant, when his ship bounds o’er the main, 
Knows her kind presence in his schemes of gain ; 
The lawyer turns him at her gentle call, 

To dream of council board and senate hall. 

She, by the pale-browed student’s feeble lamp, 
Comes gently down, and from his forehead damp, 
She wipes the midnight dew ; takes from his breast 
The sense of bitter loneliness, that prest 
On it ; and in its place she bids to rove, 

Sweet dreams of fame, and sweeter dreams of love. 
She looks in beauty from the painter’s scheme, 
And mellows o’er the sculptor’s chisseled theme ; 
Shares the young soldier’s tent, where'er he sleep, 
Rocks with the sailor on the dark blue deep ; 

Finds both the source and offspring of her spell, 
Breathing, in love, from music's exquisite swell — 


15 


Eloquent music ! such as so subdued 
The anger of the Caledonian’s mood, 

When she, ‘ the soft voice of the streamy isle,’ 
Unlocked his stern old heart with song and smile. 

But most to him her presence is divine ; 

The deep-souled bard, the high-priest of her shrine 
She bids, for him, fancy and passion start, 

Gives language to the music of his heart, 

And calls it poetry. Teaches him his power — 
Keenly to lash the follies of the hour, 

To keep the history of his country, long 
Embalmed, in the life-giving flow of song ; 

To curse the power of a tyrant’s reign, 

To edge the patriot’s sword with lyric strain, 

To catch the fleeting manners of his day, 

Draw Nature’s varied beauties in his lay, 

Or should a holier desire be given, 

Break into praise and point the path to heaven. 

And hath our land no heart to tell, in song, 

Her present glory, or her early wrong 1 

XVIII. 

Old Rome in that far elder time, 

Had many a bard that sang of her — 

The isles of Grecia’s sunny clime 
Had many a poet-worshipper. 

Nor were the after ages mute ; 

The trouvere’s harp and minstrel’s lute, 

All joined, in praising beauty’s star, 

The troubadour’s own light guitar. 

Then every knight, who hoped to win 
His lady, knew his mandolin ; 

And every voice in fair Provence, 

Was tuned to waken clear and free *, 

Till not a hill in sunny France, 

But had its tale of minstrelsy. 

Old England, blest o’er many lands. 

Hath never wanted music long. 

Her Shakspeare, like an idol, stands 
Eternal on the shrine of song. 

She had that third old sightless man, 

Along whose daring strings there rang 
Notes not of earth ; to whom was given 
The melody that told of Heaven ; 

The power that in its music blent 
The angel’s sin and punishment. 

She knew his song who sunk to rest 
Beside the blue Hellennian wave — 


16 


He of the braised and blighted breast, 

The passions’ master and their slave — 

He whose consummate mind, with master art, 

Could conquer all, save his own haughty heart. 

She knew his song, whom bigot breath 
Drove out, to die in climes afar ; 

Whose faith was fancy ; fancy, faith ; 

Who burned and died, a meteor star. 

Lost in the labyrinth himself had wrought, 

From his own wild-flower wilderness of thought. 

She knew his song, who brought again 
The olden day’s chivalric strain : 

Who sang the wild, fierce Border feud, 

The Highland chieftain's lightning mood, 

The English bow and brand ; 

And with his music’s wondrous spell, 

Hallowed each cliff, and gorge, and dell, 

Of his blue mountain land. 

She knew and knows that harp, whose thrill 
Rung to the Green Isle’s sorrows still ; 

Or hid the patriot’s wrath divine, 

’Mid the thick rose-leaves and in wine. 

And long may that harp on which Fancy has played, 

Like light o’er a blue lake, continue to ring ! 

And when, at the last, Death approaches, to fade 
The light from his eye, and the rose from his string : 
When that spell hath died off that enchanted so long, 

As fragrance dies off from the wind o’er the wave ; 
When the harp of the Green Isle, that rung to his song, 
Lies stringless and mute ’mid the flowers on his grave ; 
Oh ! then, may his memory linger around, 

Though his heart and his harp may be cold in decay ; 
As the sun, when he sinks in the ocean’s profound, 
Leaves the warmth of his rays, though the light dies away. 

xix. 

Why have we none 1 A thousand themes 
Are offered for the Poet's dreams. 

Where can the bard, o’er all earth’s globe, 

V iew a more glorious western sky 1 
When day, wrapped in his crimson robe, 

All royally lies down to die. 

Hath the old world fairer lakes 1 or mounts 
That rise with more sublimity 1 
Do prouder streams leap from her founts, 

And swell on to a noble sea 1 
Do purer stars from her heaven start 1 
Do her winds blow o’er fairer flowers 1 


/ 


17 


And hath she nobler, gentler hearts, 

Or brighter eyes and smiles than ours 1 

Oh ! no ! They may tell me of Italy’s eyes, 

That draw passion down from their own sunny skies ; 

Of Spain’s witching smiles, through the veil’s gauzy shroud, 
Like the bright summer lightning that gleams through a cloud. 

Of the light-hearted dames of their vine-scented France, 
Whose murmurs are music, whose footsteps a dance : 

Of the Georgian, whose life is to love and to smile ; 

Of the liaughty-browed dames of the ocean-girt isle : 

Of the raven-tressed Greek, whose dark eye, in its prime, 

Hath all the proud beauty that’s left of her clime : 

Of rock-built Circassia’s luxurious throng, 

With hearts strung to passion, as lutes are to song : 

But Woman ! dear woman ! in heart and in soul, 

Is the same o’er the earth, from the line to the pole ; 

Not the smile of an angel could tempt me to roam, 

While such eyes and such smiles bless and brighten my home ! 

We have proud themes on which to shower 
The treasures of the Poet’s power ; 

From him who left the king-ruled world 
For freedom’s home, and first unfurled 
Our bannered stars, till clear and free, 

They streamed, the meteors of the sea ! 

And him who saw his ship a wreck, 

Fell on her slippery blood-stained deck, 

Yet looked up towards his flag, and cried, 

“ Do not give up the ship !” and died — 

On through that long array of names, 

Who well the patriot wreath have won ; 

To him, the loftiest seat who claims, 

Our proud land's father — W ashington ! 


xx. 

Awake ! ye Poets of our clime ! 

From dreams of indolence and ease ; 
Turn from your idle amorous rhyme, 

And shun your cold moralities ! 

Your country asks your lute’s full swell ! 
Sing ! for she can reward you well. 

What is the bard’s best boon 1 Is fame! 
The immortal, laurel-circled name 1 
Or thousand-tongued applause 1 Oh no ! 

’Tis not for this he plays his part. 

Fame cannot bind his aching brow, 

Or soothe his loneliness of heart. 

Is Mammon I No ! for wealth is still 
A glittering, necessary ill. 

The heart in which sweet song is born, 
Must look and turn from gold with scorn ! 


3 


18 


Love the tyrant ! love the slave ! 
Treacherous as the fickle wave ; 

Firm, unbending as the rock 

That breasts and breaks the ocean’s shock ; 

Fragile as an infant’s breath ; 

Stronger, mightier than death : 

Faithless ever, prating knave ; 

Truthful, secret as the grave : 

Gentle, timid as the dove ; 

Passionate, lion-hearted Love ! 

Thou art the bard’s reward ! Though fame 
May crown him with her laurel tree ; 
Though ages cherish, till his name 
Grow deathless as eternity ; 

Still shalt thou be his sole reward, 

The spell that bids his numbers move, 

His heart must breathe along his chord — 
That heart but thrills to woman’s love ! 

Woman ! the poet’s dreamed delight ! 

She soothes the rugged path of pain ; 

She smiles on sorrow’s heavy night, 

And makes his life all bright again. 

Joys at his pleasure — weeps his wrong — 
And thrills at his triumphant song ! 

Should pain’s distracting touch be borne, 

She kneels beside the couch of care ; 

W T ith gentle hand removes the thorn, 

And kindly scatters roses there. 

Relic of Eden ! kindly given 

To man when sin and woe bad birth ; 

With her, our earth grows bright as Heaven ; 
Without her, Heaven were dark as earth ! 


And now, Good Night ! Like flowers and fruits, 
At early winter’s coming day ; 

Like music from HColian lutes, 

When the sweet breezes die away, 

So from my heart fades off the spell 
That filled it with its magic long ; 

And the lone breast hath ceased to swell 
With the sweet influence of song. 

Peace to each lip that praised the part, 

It hath been mine this night to play ; 

Peace to each fair and gentle heart, 

That hearkened kindly to my lay ! 

Rest dwell upon those eyes so fair ! 

May sleep be sweet, her dreams be bright. 

And life be mingled less with care, 

Than his who bids you now — Good Night ! 


NOTES. 


A few explanatory Notes are judged necessary ; many of the allusions, from the 
nature and limits of the poem, being unavoidably difficult of understanding. These 
notes are divided into sections, numbered to correspond with the divisions of the 
poem. 


VII. 

“ And him who carved those lips.” viz. the lips of Memnon, an Egyptian mon- 
arch, son of Aurora, and nephew of Priam. He was slain by Achilles during the 
Trojan war. According to Pliny, a writer named Anticlides, calls him the inventor 
of the Alphabet. His statue omitted a musical sound when the first daylight broke 
upon its lips. It seemed answering its mother’s kiss with a song. This statue 
was overthrown by Cambyses. 

“ The Persian, sword,” &c. Cambyses, the only conqueror, except Mahomet, 
who warred against religion and its ministers — 

One of that saintly, murderous brood, 

To carnage and the Koran given, 

Who think through unbelievers’ blood, 

Lies the directest path to heaven ! 

“ The world-wide conqueror.” Alexander the Great. 

“ Despot, scholar, fratricide,” &c. Ptolemy II. called by Antiphrasis, Philadel- 
phus. He increased the Alexandrian Library, founded by his father, to 200,000 
volumes ; and he appointed the 70 who translated the Scriptures — hence their 
title, Septuagint. 

VIII. 

“He whose proud dream.” Homulus, the founder of the Eternal City, and the 
fratricide of Remus. 

“ One proud woman’s heart.” Lucretia, who, by the self-immolating vengeance 
of her wrongs, roused the slumbering lion-heart of Junius Brutus, and thus de- 
stroyed the first monarchy of Rome. This Brutus is alluded to in the next lines. 
His son conspired against Rome. The father was judge and sentencer. 

“ And he who when the yawning chasm,” &c. Marcius Curtius. The next, 
Caesar ; then Pompey, who lost the world for Cleopatra. The lute-player is Nero. 

“ From him who strung the harp that Homer left” — Virgil. The Venusian Ho- 
race, from his birth-place Venusium ; the next is Ovid. 


IX. 

“ The poet-god.” Apollo, who destroyed Python, a serpent created by Juno, to 
persecute Latona, the mother of the god. Upon the death of the serpent, he insti- 
tuted the Pythian Games. He was worshipped under the title of Pythius. 

“ He the demigod” — Hercules, whose mortal portion was destroyed by a poisoned 
garment given him by his wife Dejaneira, in a fit of jealousy. 


20 


“The quick Pelides,” or Peleides, Achilles, son of Peleus. 

“ He who from Troy’s fierce flames,” &c. The pious ^Eneas. 

“ Museeus.” The Author of the story of Hero and Leander. 

“ The laureate of the wine-cup” — Anacreon. 

“ Leucadia’s temple and the frowning steep.” Leucadia is the rock from which 
Sappho leaped. The temple was a shrine of Apollo where the suicides prepared 
themselves by prayer and sacrifice. 

“ That Persian king.” Xerxes, who flung chains into the Hellespont, and caused 
the waves to be whipped, because a storm had destroyed his bridge. 


x. 

“ The hollow depths of silence-gendering caves.” An allusion to the cave of 
Trophonius, from which, all who entered, came forth gloomy and silent forever. 

“ The spirit rivers, with their prophet waves.” The Cephissus, whose waters 
were used in Theomancy. Lucan, in his Pharsalia, calls them “ Fatidica Cephis- 
sos aqua.” Lib. iii. 175. Ovid gives an account of the manner of divination. 
Met. Lib. i. v. 367. 

“ The rock-chained captive” — Prometheus. 


XI. 

“ Rushed the old Anchorite,” Peter the Hermit, the first instigator of the holy 
war. 

“ Then from the Norman coast,” &c. Robert, Count of Paris, Godfrey de Bouil- 
lon, Raymond of Toulouse, Prince Tancred, &c. These iron warriors really “ scared 
the enervate Greeks ” Robert of Paris actually seated himself upon the sacred 
throne of the Emperor, Alexius Comnenus, who was too cowardly to resist the 
insult. 

“ Him whose lust of bloody fame.” A priest named Gottschalk, who brought 
the Crusaders into disrepute and bad odor, by his excesses. 

“ Him who on Jerusalem 

First set the standard of the cross.” 

Godfrey of Bouillon, first King of Jerusalem, the Bayard of the Crusades, “ sans 
peur et sans reproche.” “He was beautiful in countenance, tall in sta- 
ture, agreeable in his discourse, admirable in his morals, and at the same 
time so gentle, that he seemed rather fitted for the monk than for the knight. 
But when his enemies appeared before him, and the combat approached, his soul 
became filled with mighty daring. Like a lion, he feared not for his person — and 
what shield, what buckler could resist the fall of his sword .” — Robertus Monachus. 

“ France had her Blanche.” Blanche, the mother of Louis, whom she educated 
for a leader of the Crusades. 

“ Old Scotland gave that noble king.” Robert the Bruce. This request was 
complied with. Lord James of Douglas, was the bearer. He fell on his return, in 
passing through Spain. 


XII. 

“ And made them deem 

Naught above woman’s love but Heaven.” 

This was the great cause of the nobleness and excellence of chivalry. Their 
high-souled passion for woman, elevated their minds, ennobled their hearts, and by 
being their promised reward of success, stimulated to those deeds of greatness and 
goodness, which have been so long the theme of poet and historian. 

XIII. 

“The shadow giant of the rock.” The giant of the Harz mountain ; a shadow 
produced by a reflection on the Brocken — 


21 


Walk, lovely and pliant, 

From the depths of the fountain ; 

As the cloud-shapen giant 
Bestrides the Harz mountain. 

The Deformed Transformed. 

“ The swart king of the copper mine.” Rubezhal, the leader of all mischief. 

-“The group 

Of rocking pines that told the sky” 

“ Then cometh the groupe of fyres, that doe watche over the wickednesse and 
evil doinge of earthe ; and doe murmur it unto the windes, which in their turn 
carrie the report up unto heaven.” — Brantome's Chronicles. 

XIV. 

“ She whom a painter of our land.” Darthula, one of the loveliest of Ossian’s 
creations. The line refers to Thompson’s beautiful picture of her, just before the 
“ arrow pierced her side.” The stern shore of Erin, and the corpses of the slain 
brothers, contrast beautifully with the pallid cheek, and proud, resolved bearing of 
the dark-eyed maiden. The whole picture is the painter’s beautiful embodiment of 
the poet’s conception. 

“ He stood upon the scaffold frame.” Earl Balmerino, one of those noble hearts 
that broke in the vain attempt to seat Charles Stuart upon the throne of his ances- 
tors. His merit has been acknowledged, and his memory preserved by the “Great 
Wizard,” Walter Scott. 

“ And pealed the slogan.” The slogan is the Highlanders’ distinctive war-cry. 

XVI. 

“ By Carthage, as the Roman sat of yore.” Caius Marius, who wept above the 
ruin of the mighty empire, of which his own arm had completed the desolation. 

“ Spain’s Iconoclasts.” But for the interposition of an old priest, the rude sol- 
diery of Cortez would have destroyed every trace of the worship and religion of 
ancient South America. 

XVII. 

“ And has our land no heart to tell in song. 

Its present glories, or its early wrong 1” 

With many, who are entitled to the “ green wreath” for the poetry of patriotism 
breathing from a song or a sketch, we have no national poet. There is none who 
has taken the spirit of our land as his inspiring muse, and sung of our early sorrows 
as they deserve. Now and then, a verse appears with a little love of country glis- 
tening through it — but our bards seem to think that their harps must send out only 
satire or light ridicule, must servilely copy the amorous models of another land ; or 
string cold precepts and harsh moral axioms together, in rhyme, perfect enough in 
measure, but destitute of music. The critics fasten upon a line that possesses one 
syllable over or under the complement, and pronounce it bad — as though the poet 
should force his burning thoughts into language measured out upon his fingers, as 
the old pedlars measure their tape. These critics see no music in such lines as 
abound in Lalla Rookh — this— an octo-syllabic — 

“O’er the magnificent earth and skies,” 
or this — a deca-syllabic— 

“ Like the faint exquisite music of a dream.” 

Why, this is the very overflowing of melody — not the want of it. 

We want a poet who, from his soul, shall voice out the inspiration of freedom — 
untrammelled by old rule, and unfearful of the sneerers at passionate song. The 
“ American flag” is our only national poem, unless Fanny be one, or unless we 
admit Pop Emmons, with his 

“ Hurley, hurley ! rumpsey, dumpsey ! 

Colonel Johnson slew Tecumseh !” 


LIBRARY OF CONGREJ 



XVII. 

“The soft voice of the streamy isle.” Ossian is sent by Fingal to Fuarfed, an 
island of Scandinavia, to assist Mal-Orchol. He takes captive Ton-thormod, who 
was warring against Mal-Orchol. At night, Oina-Morul came near where the victo- 
rious chieftain slept, and sang of her sorrow at the capture of Ton-thormod, who 
was her betrothed. She did not over-rate the power of her music. In Ossian’s 
words, “ She knew that my soul was a stream, that flowed at pleasant sounds.” He 
answers her in song, calling her “ Soft voice of the streamy isle !” and frees her 
lover. — Oina-Morul , v. 9. 

XVIII. 

“ She had that third old sightless man.” Milton, the third in his own list — 

“ Blind Thamyris and blind Maeonides 

Would I were equal to them in renown !” 

The paragraphs of the poem, that follow the above line, refer to Byron, Shelly, 
Scott, and Moore. 


